


Jenny of Oldstone

by FrostedGemstones22



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedGemstones22/pseuds/FrostedGemstones22
Summary: The night before the battle of their lives, the lords, ladies, men, and women of Winterfell contemplate their lives and their loved ones. Fourteen snippets of relationships before everything changes.A Riverdale x Game of Thrones crossover





	Jenny of Oldstone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to try to deal with all the feels I had about s8e2 of Game of Thrones, before everything goes awful and half of my favorite characters die. I, for some reason, couldn't get the idea of a Game of Thrones and Riverdale crossover out of my mind, so here it is.
> 
> Appendix of names in note at the bottom; names have been adjusted to feel more 'game of thronsy'. Most of them I hope you SHOULD be able to figure out, I tried to keep the 'flavor' of their names, if you will
> 
> I've made a TON of graphics for this fic/universe; check it out at my tumblr youngbloodlex22. 
> 
> One day this may spiral into a huge fic universe, but at least for right now, I think I've gotten the urge out of my fingers XD 
> 
> Enjoy
> 
> *leaves to play Jenny of Oldstone 10000x times on repeat*

 /  I / 

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

Forsythe bundled his furs around his shoulders, leaning forward on the cool, icy stones of Winterfell. Below him, the courtyard was filled with warriors, common-folk, maidens, and children alike, all rushing toward an day none could so predict. He spotted Lady Antonedde Mormont commanding groups in different directions as the latest of his people had staggered through the gates. Though she always put up a stern, commanding front, it was only when she glanced up, catching his eyes, that he saw the fear flicker through her body. Just for a second; just a hint of a shiver, and then it was gone again. She turned her head sharply, inhaling hard, before placing a welcoming smile back onto her face as she led a family toward the communal stew pot. 

He turned around, toward the unyielding frozen tundra before him, blanketed in snowy coats as white as his direwolf’s shaggy mane. The wind nipped at his ears and nose, but Forsythe merely squared his shoulders against the chill. 

This was his home. He’d defend it until his last breath. 

The horrors he’d seen beyond the wall were impossible to dispel from his memory. If he’d had his way, he’d never face the White Walkers and their Wights again, never see his friends and loved ones turned into a moaning monster. One rarely got what they so wished for. 

He wished for a raven, so that he could warg far beyond these fortified walls, all the way to where the Night King was, to know when he would arrive. But, it was all for naught. They could have a thousand days and still be no more ready than before. They could have the finest weapons from Dragonglass, the fiercest fires, the most prepared warriors and still lose  _ everything _ . Not just the North, but everywhere. While his family had once been caught up in the ever frustrating game of thrones, there would be no throne to sit upon if the Night King won. 

It was enough to bring the ruling families together. That is, what still remained. So many noble bloodlines already wiped from existence… Frey, Greyjoy, Baratheon, Seaworth...

There was shouting at the gates. Forsythe turned his head, curious to who it was this time coming through the gates. He saw horses, though did not have a good view of the people riding in. 

“Lord Stark!” Someone called up to him. He nodded to his bannerman to indicate he’d heard, coming down to the main area. The first flag he saw was House Umber’s, and he gave a inward sigh of relief. He may not  _ like  _ Lord Kurt Umber, a rather impertinent little shit who had a serious problem with general respect, but he did not wish to see his house decimated by the coming war. The Umbers were sworn to him, afterall, and Forsythe cared for all his people. 

He gave a firm handshake to Kurt, who looked ready to defy his greeting, but instead gave a rickety nod in reply. He was about to ask about his travel here when he spotted a dark-haired lady in the background. 

Forsythe felt his breath leave him at once, stumbling forward to grasp the girl- nay, woman- into his arms, inhaling hard. 

“Junebug,” He breathed out in a shuddered whisper, hugging his sister firmly to him, breathing into her plaited hair. Her arms twined around his neck, pulling him down to the muddy ground to collapse into his chest. It was not proper, some may say, but Forsythe had been sure his beloved and only sister had been killed when she had never replied to his raven. It had been years after all was said in done. Last he’d seen a glimpse at her was at her wedding, but she had been hardly more than a scared girl then. She was a woman now, her chin held sharp and her eyes like two reflected pieces of flint. 

“Oh, Jughead,” Forsythia ‘Junebug’ replied in a shaking, sobbing laugh, wiping the edges of her eyes. Forsyth gave a smile at their childhood nicknames, titles he only heard from old friends these days, “I-,” Whatever she was about to say next she was unable to, dissolving again into small wails. 

Forsythe looked up; their convoy was much smaller than he’d expected, even with the combination of two houses traveling together. He rubbed comforting circles on his sister’s back, frowning. Junebug’s direwolf circled around them, yelping nervously, licking Forsythe’s hands. 

He looked to Junebug’s husband, Riccard Cerwyn, who stood behind her with a sad look in his eyes. Behind him was the head of his house, Lord Jaqen Cerwyn, who was dismissing his servants and maids to start unpacking. 

“Lord Cerwyn, I had thought the very worst,” Forsythe said with a grave frown, but had not risen from his place where he held Junebug. 

“Aye, my King,” Jaqen said, a title that rubbed Forsythe the wrong way, but now was not the time to correct him, “Our keep has no one there anymore. We had been visiting with the Umbers. By the time that the raven had come to us, we were already rushing to leave.” 

“Oh?” 

Something in Jaqen’s stare unsettled Forsythe. He helped Junebug stand, bracing himself. 

“The Night King. He managed to attack half of our house. We are all that is left, m’Lord.”

Forsythe swung a frenzied gaze around to Kurt, who for once, looked as somber as a man set for the gallows. 

“It’s true. Last Hearth has fallen. Most of my people walk with the Night King. We had to tread carefully to avoid him, or we would have been here sooner.” 

Now that Forsythe looked at the gathered group, he could see the dirt and mud splattered on the hems of their gowns and capes, indicating a hasty escape. There were no carriages, just horses panting from exhaustion. Junebug’s hair was frazzled and half-undone, her eyes gaunt and glassy as though she had not slept in a fortnight. 

“When will he be here?” Forsythe asked in his most commanding tone, puffing out his chest and staring down the two Lords with all the power he had. 

Jaqen glanced toward the setting sun, shaking his head. 

“Before dawn, unquestionably.” 

Antonedde had crept up behind him, arms crossed. 

“Excuse my language, but fuck.” 

Forsythe grimaced. He motioned with his fingers for his attendant who was shaking with every step. The courtyard around the group had gone deathly quiet, not even the whispers of children could be heard. Forsythe rubbed a gloved hand over his chin, locking his jaw as he tried not to show too much fear. 

“Call together the Lords. We have much to discuss and far too little time.”

/ II /

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts. _

FP Stark exited the meeting room, leaning against the wall for momentary support as his legs shook. The excitement about seeing his darling daughter again was overshadowed by the grim declaration; war was coming. It was coming by daylight. 

The plan wasn’t much. It was no great new tactical theories that hadn’t already been thrown around the war room a hundred times. The biggest difference was that any ruling lord or lady still alive had packed themselves into the shadowy hearth-heated room, ready to lay down their lives and the lives of their soldiers for this victory. 

Forsythe had fussed over him, as his son often did, ever since FP acquiesced his title to him. He asked if he wished to be excluded from the meeting, asked if he needed a chair, offered him more supports than FP wished to admit he needed. 

He was not a young man again, but he was a warrior. FP Stark would give every ounce he had left to make sure his children survived. He had stood tall and proud through the meeting, managing until he left. 

It was impossible for the darkness of anxiety to overwhelm him. 

“Try to get some sleep tonight,” Forsythe had ended the meeting saying, but the frown on the Warden’s face told FP that he knew that to be impossible, “You’ll need your strength.” 

Everyone had left the hall, streaming in different directions as they considered their possible last night on this earth. 

Junebug had asked to see her father in the solar tonight, spend a slice of her final moments with him, and FP had found it impossible to resist her doe eyes. She’d always had him wrapped around his finger, tonight was no different. She had suggested that they travel down to the crypts to spend a few moments with Gladys Stark’s statue, pray at her mother’s feet at the hour of their end, ask for her protection. 

“I just need a moment,” FP had ruffled her hair like when she was a child, “I will meet you there soon.” 

FP drew in a few gulps of breath, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his robes, suddenly finding it incredibly warm. He had no idea where Forsyth would be tonight, but he had an entire fort to prepare. He just gave up a silent wish that his son found at least a moment for his own peace tonight, whether that be alone or in the company of friends or even a woman. 

He turned the corner, spotting a flash of unmistakable golden hair. It still shone like the new rays of a perfect morning, left him just as breathless as ever. 

“Alyse. I had not...I did not…” He stuttered out before catching himself, “I mean, Lady Arryn. I was so sorry to hear about your Lord husband.” 

Alyse raised an eyebrow at him, just as snarky as ever, “I sincerely doubt that, Lord Stark,” She mimicked the same kind of properness. 

FP gave a chuckle, looking down. 

“No, I suppose I wasn’t.” Halald Arryn had always rubbed him the wrong way and he’d been horrified to hear about Alyse’s betrothal all those years ago. The knowledge that he’d been killed had not been a raven that caused sorrow, “When did you arrive?” 

Her two daughters had been in Winterfell for moons already, preparing for the fight with their households. Pollyn had told FP that her mother was stubborn- which was not news to him- and she was unsure if she’d leave the Vale for here. He had so hoped, but hadn’t reached out with his feelings. It wouldn’t have been proper. 

“Just yestermorrow, but late,” Alyse replied, “Right in time, it would seem.” 

“Perhaps, or perhaps you’ve walked into your death.” 

Alyse regarded him for a moment, shocking him by crossing the space between the pair of them to enclose him in a hug. They had not touched since they were young and held silly fantasies they might marry one day. Still, it were as though no time had ever passed. 

“I am glad to see you again, if it is,” Alyse admitted, “Perhaps we should catch up tonight, if it would please you?” 

FP nodded, “I gave a moment of my time to my daughter now, but after, I would like nothing more.” 

Alyse stepped back, commenting she similarly was looking for her daughters and grandchildren, and that they would meet later. 

“Lady Arryn, where should I find you?” 

Alyse turned around, a sly grin on her face, “I’m sure you can find your way to my bedchambers. You scarcely ever have had a problem with that before.”

/ III /

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

“You think that Lord Stark would be too upset if we partook in the good stuff?” 

Benjen Ambrose turned to look at Kurt, raising a judging eyebrow, his mouth covering his chin and face. He slumped lower in the chair, scooting closer to the fire. Damn winters here, damn the cold, damn these undead fuckers who were coming for their heads. 

“If we survive, perhaps.” Charis- no, he prefered to be called Chuck- said, but didn’t seem to move to stop Kurt. 

“Or, maybe he’ll be so pleased that he won’t notice or care,” Kurt said, filling his goblet all the way, “Who else?” 

Benjen raised a half-hearted hand. If he was going to die, he was going to die drunk. That seemed like a good trade-off. Chuck shook his head. 

“A warrior should always have their mind cleared.” 

“Your loss, but more for me,” Kurt poured a second goblet. Benjen couldn’t say this group was  _ friends _ . He’d meet Chuck briefly before, but only had been introduced to Kurt tonight. He already sort of hated him, but who was he to judge the men here to survive? Wasn’t it no different from he was doing? 

It’s not as though they made a group for outcasts and the ones without loved ones to share with tonight, it’s more they’d all wandered into the same hall in Winterfell. There were a great many halls, all with roaring fires, but this was the closest one to Benjen’s room. And, now that he was here, he was hard pressed to take the effort to get up and find a quieter room. He may have no intention of sleeping tonight, but he wasn’t going to be active either. 

“You shits think you’ll survive?” Kurt waved his goblet, the liquid spilling onto his skin. He was already a little drunk. From what Benjen had heard of Lord Umber, he rarely said no to things that mentally shook the mind. Drinking was probably the least of the things he did often. 

“It’s useless to think about,” Chuck insisted firmly, “Because we either do or we don’t.” 

Kurt looked ready to pull him into a lengthy debate when the grand oak doors opened. It was a trio; a broad-shouldered boy, a dainty woman, and a sulky blonde. 

“What is this, a party?” The broad one asked, eyes scanning the group. 

“We can make it one,” Kurt raised a glass, “The more the merrier.” 

“I’m just looking for my husband,” The girl murmured. 

“Lady Penrose, you look pale,” Chuck said to the woman, “Why don’t you sit a moment? It’s warm here. You’re shivering.” 

“We can look for him after a moment,” The broad-shouldered one clasped her shoulder, smiling gently at her, “Okay?” 

As the man stepped into the light, Benjan gave a nod of acknowledgement to one of his fellow banner-men. He’d cut his hair since Benjen last saw him, trimmed his beard. 

“Okay,” Lady Penrose said, and Chuck stood to let her sit, going and fetching another chair from the back. 

“You have a weird nickname, don’t you,” Kurt asked, snapping his fingers at the large man. 

“Moose,” Benjen interjected, “It is strange, I suppose.” 

“Is there a particular reason you’re named that?” Kurt asked, his eyes traveling pointedly downard. Daisy let out a strangled squeak nd Benjen just rolled his eyes. He was hardly surprised when Moose gave a shake of his head, but did not seem offended. He had been very close to Midge Merryweather for years now, from the gossip Benjen had assumed a marriage was imminent. But Lady Merryweather was not with Moose and he was here, so he had to assume something else got in the way. 

“Yes, talking about our cocks is exactly what I want to be doing in my last hours on earth,” The blonde one snapped, “Sweet Seven…” 

“You’re the bastard, aren'tcha?” Kurt asked, leaning back on his chair. The man winced. It hardly mattered right now, Benjen thought. A hand was a hand was a hand. 

“Chic Stone,” He confirmed. 

“Vale, eh?” Chuck leaned forward, squinting at him, “Arryns had two daughters. Think you might be legitimized?” 

“I don’t know,” Chic threw up his hands, “It’s only recently I even made contact with my birth family. Birth mother. I don’t know who my father is, only my highborn mother.” 

Moose raised an eyebrow, his judgement clear on his face. Basterds were traditionally the father’s illegal offspring, though not unheard of from the mother. Still, Chic was an anomaly. 

“So you’re not  _ really  _ Chic Stone,” Kurt continued. 

“Of course I am. I was born at the Vale.” Chic said resolutely. 

“Think your dad is highborn? A commoner? From the Vale? You know, he could be a Lannister,” Kurt was saying, “He has some of the right traits. But the jawbones, those are more Northern. A Mormont, you think? Not one of mine, but maybe-,” 

“Does it matter?” Chic asked. 

“No,” Kurt raised his glass, “But it passes the time.” 

The grand doors opened again. “Oh, I hadn’t realized-,” 

“Lady Cerwyn,” Chuck purred, “It’s been a while since we last spoke.” Kurt was also looking at the young lady with eyes that seemed to want to undress her in front of them. 

“For good reason,” An older gentleman said sternly, trailing behind her, glaring pointedly. Benjen had no reason to look. He was married. Not happily, per se, but pleased enough. And, he liked his head connected to his body, so looking at married Ladies was just all around a bad idea. 

“You her keeper?” Kurt teased. 

“I am the keeper of women who don’t deserve men like you treating them like dogs,” The man said with fury in his eyes. 

Kurt looked him up and down, “You ever been in a fight old man? You seem about ready to turn to dust. I would welcome a fight right now.” He cracked his knuckles. By the gods, this man was raving mad, Benjen thought. Wasn’t the fight coming to their doors enough? He seemed all to excited for it; not even the chance to be an honorable fighter, or to protect his people, but the sheer bloodlust alit his eyes. Benjen tried scooting his chair away from Kurt. 

“I may have gotten through most of my years without a fight, aye, but that does not mean I don’t know which end of a sword to stick an enemy with,” He said firmly. 

“Lannister,” Daisy spoke up suddenly. Benjen thought she was still talking about Chic, until she gave a small smile to the old man, “You serve the Lannisters?” 

“Correct,” He said, “I pledged myself to their household very early, but more so to the women in it.” 

Chuck snorted, “I don’t think Lannister women need defending. Bloody harpies and banshees, they are.” 

“You’d do well not to talk about my Lady like that,” The man said, the darkness in his voice sending most people in the room with a shiver. Lady Cerwyn was glowing. Lots of women looked up to Veranica Lannister, what with her sharp wit and deadly execution of whatever she set out to do. Her father probably wished she was a son often, for if she had been born a man, she would be utterly fearsome. 

“Smyths Westerling!” Chic snapped his fingers, having been in his own mind, apparently searching for a name. Smyths nodded, but more or less looked over Chic. 

“Is that wine?” Lady Cerwyn asked, taking the goblet from Kurt’s fingers without asking. Kurt was halfway through a protest, until Lady Cerwyn chugged it in one go. 

“If I’d known you were like this, I would not have turned down your father’s offer of your hand so many years ago,” Kurt chuckled. Lady Cerwyn glared, re-filling the goblet. 

“Thank the gods that you didn’t,” She said, turning up her nose, “I’m happy with my husband.” 

“Then why are you here?” Moose asked, motioning to the circle that had grown quite large. 

“Because,” She said simply, “Just because.” 

“If that isn’t the phrase of the night. To ‘because’,” Chuck said, raising his glass. It glimmered in the firelight that warmed the room. No one seemed like they were moving on anytime soon. Most people echoed his sentiments with a half-hearted toast. 

“May we survive past because,” Benjen murmured, turning his face toward the fire, praying for the fight to come and for it to pass.

/ IV /

_ And the ones who had loved her the most. _

The needle pricked Elysabeth’s finger for the umpteenth time. She immediately licked the small wound, wincing and sighing. She had to face it; she was just far too distracted to focus on sewing these outfits for her niece and nephew. As much as she wanted a menial task such as embroidering perfect flowers-something Elysabeth had been doing since she was ten-and-one, the upcoming dawn was just too much pressure in her mind. 

And would it matter, even? Would there be anyone left for Elysabeth to give these to? She rubbed a hand over her face, wishing she were more exhausted, for perhaps she would be able to have a moment of sleep, if that were the case. Although she hadn’t slept soundly for days, tonight, of all nights, was not the time she’d fall asleep.

Her stomach felt knotted and twisted, like someone was grasping her innards and pulling hard. It was enough to make her nauseous. Her fingers reached for the kraft of wine and found it shockingly empty. Well, perhaps not shockingly. Elysabeth was never a huge fan of the sweet wine, only having it on special occasions, but tonight she found herself wishing for the dry welcome on her tongue. 

Making up her mind, Elysabeth clutched the silver vessel to her chest, gathering up her long and soft robes and ventured out of her room. 

She found the wine cellars easy enough. Mustang Manderly was already raiding a few bottles and gladly filled up her kraft for her. When his companion, his son and heir Manderly protested and sputtered about her ‘ladyship’, Lord Mustang merely laughed. 

“Everyone gets wine tonight, m’boy,” He said, raising a tired eyebrow, “And besides, Lady Tyrell makes the requirement for a lady, but just barely. I’ve seen her with a sword. Terrifying, she is.” 

The young Manderly was now looking at Elysabeth with some form mixed respect and lust. She curtised to the pair, taking her leave before the young one said something utterly stupid to her. 

Back in her room, she noticed that Kevan’s thick fur coat had been thrown over the chair, however she did not see her husband. Elysabeth set down her jug, pouring herself a generous cup of wine. She picked up the coat, inhaling Kevan’s floral scent that seemed to follow him all the way from Highgarden. She did hope to see him before the night was up, but she could not blame him for being elsewhere. 

She loved Kevan, of course she did. She just wasn’t in love with him. It was fine; he wasn’t in love with her either. 

She shut down all the whispers and nasty comments that her husband liked knights and squires more than princesses and ladies, holding his secret close to her heart. Protecting it, the gift of truth he’d given her what seemed like eons ago. She wouldn’t allow any simper of the rumor. Mostly, it was just jealous girls and lads, looking to make her and her house feel worse. Elysabeth was unflappable, however. Kevan was a good man, a fair ruler. There weren’t too many of those around. If it meant marrying him as she’d done nearly a year ago, she’d do it over and over and over again. He had been one of her dearest friends from when they were young and she was pained to think if he’d been forced to marry a less understanding, less caring woman, such as Cheryl Targaryen. 

Before this, their goal had been simple. All they needed was one male heir. Just one. 

If they survived this night…

Elysabeth glanced out the window. It was lightly snowing. It was so different here from the Vale, with it’s high winds and arid dry days. It was even more so different than Highgarden, with the green roses all over and the moist but warm, quiet nights. 

She finished her glass in one gulp. She drummed her fingers on the table-top for a moment, cussing lightly under her breath. Her mother would have been horrified to hear her use such crude words, but she’d always had problems being the ‘perfect’ daughter, not like Pollyn. Pollyn was the good sister. 

Elysabeth stood up, wrote a note to Kevan in case he came back and they missed paths again, and set out through the drafty halls of Winterfell. She passed a great many people, few so much looked in her direction other than to offer her a tight smile or a nod. Everyone had their own business to set in order tonight, they could hardly blame her for being awake too. 

She prayed to any of the Seven that would listen that the object of her travels would be in his room right now, instead of out with friends and loved ones. But she was a loved one, was she not? She felt it in the pit of her stomach that she should be with him right now. 

She  _ thrapped _ twice on his door. The tall man answered, and Elysabeth stood before him, her fingers in front of her chest. She dug her nails into her skin, hoping that he would not send her away. 

“Lady Elysabeth,” He said quietly, so softly that the wind picked it up and carried it only to her. His face softened. He stood tall, shoulders high. He was still in his armor and heavy clothing, and from the sweat on his face, it seemed like he’d gotten back from sparring, “I...I was considering seeing you tonight.” 

“Ser Jordayne. I decided for you. May I come in?” She asked. 

The knight took a step into the halls, looking around twice, before tugging her into his room. It was small and sparsely decorated, but it was bigger than she’d been expecting. They seemed to not cross paths very often in Winterfell, apart from longing glances and heavy sighs. 

As soon as the door was closed, Elysabeth was pulling his face down to hers, kissing him fiercely. Her worry about the upcoming day poured into her affections. She wanted to drown now in them. She wanted to free-fall from her love, die on this magnificent high, instead of the reality of how she may die tomorrow. 

“Sweet Pea, oh,” She murmured against his mouth, “I love you.” The words fell from her lips before she could stop them, but it was right. He had known, she hoped, for years now, but she’d been unable to say them. She couldn’t have either of them die without telling him. 

“Betty,” He said, hugging her and shaking, drawing a intake from her throat at the tenderness of his tone, “Betty, I love you too. I should have said it before now, but I do. If I survive tomorrow I-,” 

“We, if we,” Betty corrected softly. 

Sweet Pea drew back, eyebrows knitting, “No,” He shook his head, swallowing thickly, “You...you  _ can’t _ . Please, stay in the Crypts with the other women- with your sister, and mother, and kin.” 

Elysabeth drew back, patting his broad chest a couple times, tonguing the inside of her cheek, “You cannot ask that of me.” 

“I am,” He said, almost angry, “Because I care for you and I will not want to worry about you the whole time.” 

Elysabeth shoved him, “Oh, and of course I would not be worried about your life the whole time either, then? No! I know how to fight, I will be out there, fighting for my people.” 

“Others can fight your your people! If you died-,” 

“You will be out there, my husband will be out there, my two best friends will be out there! I will not sit inside waiting for the news that you have been slain and I will never see you again!” 

“That won’t happen,” Sweet Pea said firmly, “I am a good fighter, m’Lady, you know this.” 

“I do. You would not have been knighted otherwise,” Elysabeth collapsed on his bed, “But these things are not human. That is the fear. It may be an enemy we cannot win.”

Sweet Pea sat on the bed next to her, “If that is the fear, then why let yourself die needlessly? Wouldn’t you rather be ready to flee with the other women and children to survive?” 

Elysabeth gave a sharp laugh, but it was more pain than amusement, “You don’t get it. If we do not win, there is no after.” 

Sweet Pea took her pale hand in his, trailing his thumb over the top of her skin, “I was going to say, that if I survive this, I would speak to Lord Stark about switching my position to Lord Kevan. To never be parted from you.” 

Elysabeth couldn’t help the grin of glee that filled her face, “People would surly whisper.” 

“A small price to never be unhappy again,” Sweet Pea replied, cupping her chin as he tenderly caressed her. It was moments before their kisses grew warm and needy. Elysabeth’s fingers began to unclasp his armor. 

“Betty-,” 

“I want this,” Elysabeth rushed to silence him. It not only quieted his protests, but shocked him into utter wordlessness. They had always been careful, pleasing each other in many other ways, but not this, “If we are to die tonight, I want to do this. I have only ever lain with Kevan, and while he cares for me, he doesn't love me or desire my body. I want to know what it feels like to be with someone who does.” She looked at him imploringly, “Please.” 

“What if a child comes of it?” 

“Kevan would claim it. It if were a son, it would even make things easier. Your coloring and his are not so different. Sometimes, all they want is an heir, and are willing to overlook everything else.” A part of Elysabeth did hope for a child from this union, as unpredictable as the consequences may be, “Sweets…” She pleaded. 

He laughed, pulling them onto his bed, “I have hardly ever been able to resist you. I don’t think I could claim that I want to deny this of you. Clever girl.” 

Elysabeth pulled Jordayne on top of her, “You talk too much. If I know how to do this correctly, there shouldn’t be words at all.” 

“Yes, m’Lady.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Character Names:   
> Forsythe (Jughead)  
> Forsythia 'Junebug' (Jellybean)  
> Antonedde (Toni)  
> Kurt (Kurtz)   
> FP and Gladys (Same as in show)  
> Riccard Cerwyn (Ricky DeSantos)  
> Jaqen Cerwyn (Joaquin DeSantos)  
> Alyse (Alice)  
> Halald (Hal)  
> Benjen (Ben Button; Ethel's 'BF')  
> Moose (same)  
> Charis 'Chuck' (Chuck Clayton)  
> Daisy (same as in show; a random Riverdale high student)  
> Smyth (Smithers)  
> Chic (same as in show)  
> Veranica (Veronica)  
> Elysabeth (Betty)  
> Kevan (Kevin)  
> Mustang (Same)  
> Cheryl (same)  
> Jordayne 'Sweet Pea' (Sweet Pea)  
> Archabald (Archie)  
> Junipir and Daeg (Juniper and Dagwood)  
> Tommen (Tom Keller)  
> Pollyn (Polly)


End file.
